The Opera
by William Wolf
Summary: Just as civilization hides the worst parts of humanity from ourselves and others, so some see the Masquerade as a way of reining in what is most monstrous inside the kindred. The upholding of it is a duty some take deadly seriously. In this opening chapter the story of an embrace on the road to York begins a life (so to speak) devoted to defending the all too fragile Masquerade.


_**The Opera, part one – RSVP**_

_Believe me, I see a thousand ghosts behind me. And I'm not being dramatic when I say I can hear the chains rattling, on a quiet day._

"The Tremere have been restless lately. People are concerned."  
"Nobody trusts them."  
"But things have been getting worse lately. I think it's the air."  
"The pressure. The sense of an ending."  
"It grows. The Tremere are only part of this problem. Politically, things are becoming unstable. Difficult to control."  
"Frightened kindred are the easiest to control."  
"And the most desperate. Prone to desperate acts and desperate beliefs. We will lose our grip on things."  
"You worry too much. It is the Tremere alone that should concern us. Any word from the sewer rats?"  
"Nothing. Which is unusual. I worry about that too. If I didn't worry we would both have suffered the final death too many times to count. The werewolf in Angola."  
"The mine in Scotland. Yes, I know the list."  
"So trust me on this. The problem is bigger. We must keep our gaze wide: the right perspective."  
"And deal with our immediate problems first. The Tremere. I suggest we do what we always do."  
"I _have_ been itching to get out."  
"You'll have your chance. I'll hunt out my mask. We'll give them a night to remember."  
"Clichés were always your weakness."  
"The Opera was made for drama."

* * *

I have always been fascinated by the imagery of hell. Such fearful depictions. The artists somehow imagining a world worse than the one they were forced to reside in: that shows great talent. I consider it a kind of prophecy in allegory. One day they will discover that not only are the monsters they thought they'd imagined real, but much, much worse things share their world with them. Then they will look back on those old paintings and realise that those mad artists hadn't been painting hell at all, they'd been painting their own world as it really was. It still is like that. But today we hide under a veneer of civility. Much like the humans do. They call it civilization. We call it the Masquerade. It is one and the same. We hide our monstrosity from others and from ourselves. It makes it easier to live. One day, though, everything will emerge out into the light.

And perhaps it will be soon. But it has not happened yet. Were my existence not proof, in my eyes, that God does not exist, I would thank him that it has been allowed to endure for so long. Not to say the frail mask's survival has been without close calls. I will take you back to one particular one: a night, six hundred years ago, when what I fear is approaching now first threatened to wipe out all that we have. And by that I do not mean our kind's existence, on which I wish an end. I mean the light, the last hope; the only hope that is left in this world is humanity. But I did not care about that back then. I was young, so of course I cared for nothing but myself.

It is so hard to remember, even with the tattered and damaged book, which I somehow still have, where I recorded that night (but not until a hundred years after the event. And I wonder: I am a century older than this book. How have I aged so well?). It actually hurts to recall so far back, like my brain is resisting it. I will be as accurate and reliable as I can, like any good historian, but even so that was a night of frenzy and malevolence and the memories are strained and confused. I see here that my handwriting is very bad, nearly illegible at times, my hand was shaking so much as I wrote. But I will try to decipher it and record it again for you.

"I fell from my horse. Being so far north for the winter, when I was used to London, the extremity of the cold had taken me by surprise. I had been shivering on my horse's back for the last five miles, as the clouds gathered and the late afternoon pressed towards evening, when she reared and threw me, utterly unexpectedly. You must know, and I include this for anyone who has been fortunate enough not to find this out for themselves, that this is the most wretched and shocking experience: when a horse throws you and the world seems to come up and crash into your body before you even realise you have left her back. As I came to my senses, not yet feeling pain though my arm had been crushed underneath me, I heard my horse galloping away through the trees. I never saw that horse again.  
I know there are great legends that begin this way. An Englishman is abandoned by his animal in the middle of a strange wilderness and meets a kindly faerie who leads him back home in exchange for something valuable of his. My tale is so similar, and so terribly dissimilar from those, that I wonder if those stories are as true as mine, and that those men were just lucky enough to meet a kindly creature in the woods. The one that found me was anything but kind.  
But it did not find me right away. My arm was very badly hurt, and I knew nothing about how to treat it. It was agony to move it just a little though, so I made a sling as I had seen men do and then did the only thing I could: I walked on down the road, hoping I would meet someone who could help me. Night came down. It seemed to creep out from between the trees to cover the landscape in lengthening shadows and darkening gloom. The horse had run away with everything I had taken for travel save some money and a dagger; I did not even have a flint. Soon it would not have mattered if a man had been ten feet from me, I would not have seen him until I stumbled into him. I began to be afraid, and to hate myself for that. For a man, I thought at the time, is not afraid, come what may. Now I know differently: fear will keep you alive. Listen, as I tell you how lacking it ended in my death.  
Despite myself, I rejoiced when I glimpsed a yellow glow of light ahead. A house, I thought. Or a village. I quickened my pace, my shoes on the stony road the only sounds I could hear, and soon I was just thirty feet from the light and I could see what it was. A man sat upon a horse, holding a spear in his hand, upon the top of it a flame, beneath that a flag. The standard was not one I recognised, though today it is all too familiar to me. The man I did not know either, though now, of course, I do. I rushed up to him, speaking loudly but not too loudly, to avoid surprising him. But he did not start as I began to beg him.  
'Sir! Sir!'  
It seemed almost as though he had known I was coming, for he turned his head and regarded me, seeming to look me over even before I stepped into his light. I was scared of entrusting myself to this strange man, but my pride assured me that I could handle him if he turned out to be wicked. The best confidence is found in ignorance.  
His smile I remember well. It was the easy-going smile that put you at your ease and made the world feel a little bit warmer. It was a comfort to me, seeing a smile like that when I had been wandering, blind and pained and terrified, through dangerous and unknown woods. Perhaps that was why I held nothing back, even though it shamed me, when I told him what had happened. Or perhaps I was just desperate. I told him I had fallen from my horse when it had unaccountably been scared off. I was up from London, I said, to see my family in York. I assured him I was a good Catholic man and begged him, as a Christian, to be a good Samaritan and assist me. Still with the smile he nodded. He took from a bag on his saddle some water (or so I thought it was) and threw it to me. And I saw him draw a lantern from the saddle too. I thanked him profusely, opened the bottle, and drank deep.  
I had been thirsty. Scared, yes. But thirsty and hungry and wanting every home comfort. So I drank and swallowed without even thinking to taste what he had given me. I should have been more scared. Fear, remember. Fear keeps you alive.  
In a moment I was retching on my knees, trying to force the stuff out of me. The bottle fell to the floor and, in the torch light, I saw the deep red liquid come spilling out. The man snatched it up in an instant – I had not even seen him jump down from his horse – and held a sword point to my throat. He made me rise until I was standing. I regarded him with fear, my chin slightly raised by the steel sitting under it. The smile had gone, and though the visage left was not terrible or monstrous, there was no warmth there. There was no humanity.  
In one motion he swiped the sword downwards and slit the belt holding my dagger. It clattered to the floor and he stepped forward, in one fluid movement sheathing his sword and kicking the dagger out of the circle of torchlight. He still held the spear in his left hand. He stood so close to me I could feel the heat of the flame. I assumed I was going to die. All my fantasies of battle, of honourable deaths on battlefields, flashed before me. At the same time I could sense everything. I could taste blood in my mouth. I could hear my own breathing and the faint noises of the forest that I had not heard before. I could see how still he was, how his bright blue eyes did not blink and how he did not seem to breathe. A terrible, supernatural terror filled me and it must have been evident on my face for after a moment he stepped back from me.  
'Do not worry,' he said, and his accent was something I could not place, even though living in London had exposed me to voices from across Europe. Italian was the closest I could guess, though it was harsher, his voice had no softness and betrayed his soothing words. 'I will not harm you. I hope you do not mind my little trick too much. You cannot be too careful of strange men with tales of misfortune, alone here in the dark. But I see now you are who you say you are. Please, forgive me.' He held out his hand, but I would not take it. After a moment he withdrew it, a pained expression on his face. I did not believe him, but I wagered the longer he was talking the longer it would be before he drew his sword again. My voice shook.  
'What are you doing here, on such a cold night? Why are you alone here?'  
'Oh,' he said, nonchalantly, 'I am not alone,' and that sent a cold rush through me, but then he continued, 'My companions had some business to take care of, and I must remain here to meet an associate. I am afraid our meeting is under shadow, one of subterfuge. Therefore I cannot allow you to go on from here until we have met, for you might tell someone we are meeting.' When I heard this I stepped back, and was about to run when he continued, 'but once she has come and our business is concluded you may go on your way.'  
I do not want to tell you what might have happened then if I had decided to run. I think that perhaps if he had not said 'she' I would have run, despite his promise to let me go. Sometimes, though, the power of curiosity overcomes the power of fear. That is why so many cats meet unfortunate ends.  
'You are meeting a woman here, sir?' He grinned at my question and my puzzlement.  
'I am. A great woman. One of standing and stature among my people. I advise,' he said, with raised eyebrows as though he was a teacher correcting an errant pupil, 'that you do not react with such shock to her gender when she arrives.'  
'So, I must stay here until you let me go?'  
'Until our business is concluded, yes. I am sorry, truly, I do not wish to frighten you and I realise this is not what you want. You are having a difficult night.' he said, regretfully, and his empathy struck me then as genuine. Perhaps it was. I still do not know.  
It was then that I noticed the pain abating in my arm. My fall had broken it, I had been sure, but now the pain was ebbing away and cool relief was flooding through me instead. I stared at it in amazement. When I looked back at the man, as if to check the veracity of my own senses, I saw that he was regarding me with an enigmatic look, his lips slightly pursed, as though gauging my reaction."

If I thought he was a hard man to read then I did not yet know the half of it. It is odd how details come back to you when your brain is busy with something as mundane as copying out a text. I remember more now than I did before. The smile: I remember that very well. The flame-lit banner: a copy of which I have somewhere in my spacious yet bursting attic. The sound of a woman screaming in defiant outrage through a wool-cloth gag: that's a sound I thought I'd never forget. Though everything disappears into time I am glad I have proved to myself that that memory hasn't quite slipped away yet.

"'What is that sound?' I shrieked, whirling around to face the eastern forest.  
'I imagine it is my companions returning. I think they've brought a little supper.'  
'They were hunting? At night? That is no animal.'  
'In a way. In a way they were.'  
It had been fifteen minutes, at my best guess, of nervous waiting in the cold, since I had had the sword at my throat. The immediate danger having been replaced by a low growl of dread I had contemplated the change in my position. I was not much warmer, since the flame was bright but quite little. However, I was not in darkness; I was not blind. But these advantageous changes seemed not to make up for the presence of this man who I feared more than any other man I'd ever met, more than my father even, despite his smile and his kind words. Now these sounds were approaching and making me wonder at the fact that no matter what dangers lurk in your little circle of light they are always eclipsed by the fear of dangers coming from outside the circle. Perhaps I didn't think that at the time. It is likely all I did was stare, terrified, into the darkness, listening to the sounds of muffled shouting and the odd noises of movement coming closer. Nevertheless, it is true. And at that moment I forgot how much I feared the man I was with and I was glad of his presence.  
They came into the light one by one, and the last one had a woman, kicking and struggling, slung over his shoulder. They numbered three. I stepped back so far at the sight of them that I almost stepped away into the darkness and had to stop myself.  
'The last one left. She's a fighter.' Taking up the rear, the final one to step into the light, who was also the tallest, dropped the woman to the ground, where she writhed and tried to tear at the bands of cloth tying her wrists and ankles. Then all three of them looked at me. I had never been stared at like that before. I knew then what it must be like for pigs to be examined at a market. It is a horrible experience to have someone judge how much meat you have on your bones as if they wanted to eat it. I stepped back once more, so I was half-covered in shadow. They were not a pretty sight."

They were strangely dressed: the colours and cuts of their clothing foreign to my eyes. But at first the blood was all I saw. The tall one had it round his mouth and soaking his chest. The other two were splattered with it, the short, evil-eyed one on the left had his hands stained red; the slim, effeminate-looking one on the right had spots of it from his feet to his face. I tell you this because the description of them in my old journal does not go far enough in describing the brutality of their appearance. They were a horrifying sight, and I was duly horrified.

"They regarded me, and I could tell the blood-lust was still high in them. If only I had known then that for their kind the hunger never leaves them and the lust is always there. They looked at me as though it was only curiosity that was keeping them from ripping my throat out. I looked to the first man, the standard-bearer, hoping for some protection, for some sign that he would keep to his word. With relief I saw him make a motion of his hand towards them and their gaze slid off me. But I was afraid again as their attention then fell on to the woman who struggled on the floor. My instincts for survival warred with my duty as a Christian. It would be cowardly to try to convince you that I was out of my mind with fear, and nothing could have persuaded me to put myself in harm's way again by trying to protect her. The truth is I could have chosen to do so, I see that now, though I tried hard to convince myself otherwise at the time. I chose to remain silent, and held myself in fierce contempt.  
The tall one nodded to the standard-bearer. He came forward and took the spear off him.  
'Brought the best they had, Francisco,' he said as he took it. He grinned but the grin fell away as he met with a glare from the man I now knew to be Francisco, and who I took to be their leader.  
'Thank you. Why don't you tell him all of our names, so he may reveal them to the world?'  
'Won't matter much will it?' And he turned on me the smile a wolf gives a sheep caught in a hedge. Then he said, with a barked laugh, 'Seems like Francisco can hunt without leaving his post.'  
'Enough.' And with a word Francisco silenced him. I was relieved, but it would be to only hint at my feelings if I said I was troubled by what I had heard."

As we waited I grew to know a little more of my captors, for that is what I saw them as by then. The tall one seemed the fiercest, and the lowest in manner. The red-handed, short man was silent. His hair was wild and his clothes were dirty and torn; he sat by the very edge of the light, eyes looking out into the darkness, turning his head every so often as if hearing sounds from the forest when all I heard was silence. Looking at him (though I was careful not to look too long or to be indiscreet) the picture came to me of an animal, perhaps a fox, sitting in the dark and sensing a world that held no mysteries for its heightened senses.  
The last one had paid me the least attention. He had, as soon as his leader had given his silent order, sat down, well within the torchlight, and begun to read. I thought the light would be too dim for that, for I had seen men of God read in fiercely lit rooms, but evidently not for he sat still and did not take his eyes from his book. He was not even disturbed when Francisco bent down to the imprisoned woman and sank his teeth into her throat.

"He brought his head up from her neck, dripping with blood that shone in the torchlight, and stared straight at me. Over the noise of her screaming I heard him say, 'No need for subterfuge now, my friend. But once you're used to the game it's practice is second nature. Force of habit, I'm afraid.' And then he ripped into her flesh once more. I noticed, then, that his victim was gradually falling still. It was not as though she was dying, but she stopped struggling and I saw the pain fall from her face. She gazed out with a calm serenity. It was then that I began to run."

* * *

"The invitations have been sent. About half RSVP'd. The Dark Lady is our front, so you know everybody will be too frightened to say no."  
"Even the Tremere."  
"Even them. Hmmm."  
"Oh god. Tell me, what is it?"  
"We are taking far too many risks."  
"We are taking just the right amount of risks. Too few risks is as risky as too many; but we have exactly the right amount, which reduces our risk."  
"Are you saying more risks is less risky than fewer risks? You're talking nonsense."  
"My nonsense is perfectly correct. Come on, my friend. These are times of fear and desperation. Anything less than leaping for the jugular won't cut it. We have to be like we once were. Do you remember? When we were young, or relatively young, and we risked our lives every single night. Living on a knife's edge. Until we got high enough on the blood-stained pole that we never had to fight directly, and the dangers were always dangers for somebody else; disaster was just a minor set-back. Too many years to count of living that way. We've gone soft. Time to remember what it was like to rip a kine's throat out."  
"I can't believe I'm saying this, but I think you're right. I can feel the beast stirring."  
"That's it. Let it off the leash."  
"I do remember. Such vivid lives we led back then. It would feel so good to gamble everything again. And to come out on top."  
"I'd hope for that outcome."  
"Let's roll the dice."  
"Let's give them a party."

* * *

It is a ghastly feeling to turn your back on those you fear any second will kill you in horrible ways. Had I been thinking straight I don't think I would have done it. But I was overcome with a wild, beastly terror at those monsters and could not stand to stay with them any longer. I thought they would kill me, and kept waiting for a sword point to stab into my back. But as it turned out they weren't thrilled at the prospect of waiting around for their appointment, and their blood-lust had not abated. They thought it would be fun to hunt me through the trees – sighted cats taunting a blind mouse. It was the worst few minutes of my life – though it felt to me as though I was in those dark woods, blundering into trees and bloodying myself tripping over roots, for hours and hours. Eventually they got tired of chasing me – I was not very much of a challenge in any case – and the beastly short one pounced on me. His weight nearly crushed my chest. I lay there underneath him, feeling his weight, half of me glad that I could finally stop running, the other half feeling a frenzied fear, wanting desperately to live. He brought his face down very close to mine and I felt him sniff me. He paused for a moment, as though deliberating. Then he jumped off of me and I gulped in great, deep lungfuls of air and curled around my pain, thanking God I was not dead yet. Thanking him over and over again.  
I wrote a detailed account of that chase, more detailed than I have given here. But I must relive every experience that I write now, as my mind recalls to itself the experiences of so very long ago, and I have no wish to relive that horrible chase. I return to the journal for its aftermath.

"I had assumed they had grown bored of the hunt but as we emerged out of the trees, the tall one pushing me hard in the back every few seconds, I saw that there was another reason. A large black carriage, heavily ornamented and looking quite out of place, stood on the road. Four bright lanterns burned upon it, one on each corner of its roof, and the road was illuminated almost as if it were daytime. Four mighty black horses stood in harness with their breath steaming in the cold air. There was a coat of arms on the side, and I was shocked as I saw this was a nobleman's carriage, but I did not recognise the insignia. I was pushed round the side and the other two men came into view, for Francisco and the book-reading man had not joined in the hunt for me, though I had not guessed that before. They were at the window of the carriage, and I saw the woman lying behind them: her bonds were cut and she lay breathing deeply as though asleep, looking peaceful and serene with no wound at her neck – not even a speck of blood marking her dress.  
I then saw that I had been wrong. From the way that my two hunters stood off to one side and made me stand with them, back straight and in a line like soldiers, and the respectful way the other two addressed whomever sat inside the coach it was clear this was a noble family's coach. But I spied a veiled figure inside meaning this must be a noble-woman's coach, not that of a noble man. I felt my natural feudal duty (or so I thought it to be then) impose itself upon me. But if she was talking to these monstrous men I did not know what kind of noble-woman she could be. Could she be as evil as them? It scarcely seemed possible, but at that moment, seeing such demonic, supernatural creatures, I was ready to believe anything.  
I must explain that at that age I was like any other man, in that I had beliefs of feudal hierarchy and the sense of my own place in the world instilled deep inside me. Little did I know that the greatest king or pope was as nothing to the powers that be. The real powers.  
I saw then that the book-reading man took something from inside his coat. It looked like a bone, but carved and shaped in a way I had never seen a bone shaped. I could not get a good look at it but it was a deeply unsettling thing to see. It made me shiver and I saw that even the two of them were loathe to have it, as they touched it gingerly and passed it inside the coach quick as they could.  
As soon as she had it there was a faint knock against wood and a coachman I had not even noticed before cracked a whip and jolted the horses forward. With a clatter of wood against stone and the clinking of horse hooves the coach thundered away, gathering speed until it was racing down the road, a glow of orange torchlight disappearing into the darkness.  
What we were left with was barely a flicker of flame in comparison. The four men gathered together, my two hunters leaving me alone to go and join their companions. I did not dare run again and they knew it. Left alone, my gaze was drawn to the woman and I felt sympathy for her. Our positions were roughly the same. With the important difference, I reminded myself, that she had done nothing for me because she could not, whereas I had done nothing for her because I was too cowardly. I wondered then if she would thank me for slitting her throat, or, better, if I could somehow get her away and redeem myself in God's eyes. My mind began to spin, searching for some kind of leverage I might use against these men, anything I could give or trade. I had nothing except a small amount of coin, and I knew that if they traded items with nobility they would not be interested in my money.  
Suddenly I spoke, before I lost my nerve. 'Sirs!' I began, startling them, 'I know you fear me telling your secrets and I will not beg for myself, but this woman has slept through your meeting and the arrival of the carriage. She knows nothing and is no threat to you. Pray, release her, since you have no reason to keep her. Why put more blood on your hands? Er.' I hesitated. 'Metaphorically.'  
They stared at me flatly, as if I was the last thing they wanted to concern themselves with. After a pause, Francisco waved a hand dismissively and they turned back to their activity. Relief flooding through me I went and approached the woman. She was lying just as she had been before. Though the thundering carriage hadn't awoken her it took only my shaking of her hand to make her stir. Her eyes snapped open and she stiffened. She searched my face but no recognition dawned. Quickly, before they changed their minds, I hurried her to her feet – she did not resist – and whispered that she must run back to where she had come from as fast as she could. She saw that I meant it and, with a fear-filled glance back at the four men huddled together, set off into the trees. I watched her go with a longing filling me. I would so have loved to be able to run after her. She disappeared into the darkness and I sighed regretfully.  
I then heard chanting behind me. The four men were speaking in a low rhythm with each other. They spoke words that were entirely unfamiliar to me. They sounded alien, with harsh, unfamiliar sounds. I saw they had stepped off the road and were standing round the spear. It was stuck down into the soil. The flame began to burn brighter and brighter.  
All of a sudden I sensed something behind me, something lower than a noise – barely more than a whisper. I turned again and saw, at the edge of the widened circle of orange light, the freed woman standing, looking utterly different in expression and bearing, pulling back on a large bow. It seemed too big and powerful for her but she pulled back the string with ease, then loosed an arrow. The shaft blurred past me, too fast even to see, and when I turned to follow it I was only just in time to see the effeminate man fall backwards onto the ground, an arrow shaft protruding from his heart. I stared on in shock but barely had see him fall when the other three flew past me, heading straight for the woman. I heard a sound as I turned to follow them – or more like three sounds happening at the same time – and when my eyes caught up with the rush of events the three men were staggering back too and falling to the ground with arrows in their hearts. The woman was nowhere to be seen.  
I could do nothing but look round at the bodies around me in stunned surprise. I did not even think to lie down on the floor in case I should be shot at. But no more arrows came and, the way it often is after the violence is done, there was the peace of the battlefield after the battle. The bodies did not move. I came to my senses enough to notice that no blood gathered around the wounds on the men, but they were deathly still.  
Footsteps sounded behind me, two pairs of them. Into view, along the road, came the freed woman and another, veiled, figure. They stepped into the torchlight and came to stand on the road just a few feet from me. The freed woman stood like a servant, waiting for the other whom I recognised – as much as a veiled person can be recognised – as the woman from the carriage. She was looking round at the bodies, inspecting them. She then walked over to the effeminate man and took his book from where it had fallen. She tucked it into a hidden pocket in her clothing and then turned her attention on me.  
I can tell you I did not like that attention. It made me very uncomfortable. I did not like the cold feeling crawling up my spine nor that it was combined with a great feeling of inferiority, and not one just of social standing but of something somehow more. She came to stand in front of me and I found myself standing a little straighter and a little smarter. I dared to ask her who she was. She did not answer right away, but looked down at where Francisco lay. His face was frozen in a snarl of rage. Then she removed her veil. I had been uncomfortable before, but now I was even more uncomfortable but for an entirely different reason. She was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. I strained to control myself, lest my eyes pop and my jaw drop open. Her face was angelic, her hair jet black, soft, and parted to frame her face. Her skin was pale white. Such beauty was God's beauty, I thought then. Then she spoke and her accent was from London. I almost laughed out loud.  
'His true face is at last revealed.' She smiled at me then, and my heart melted. 'My servant tells me you persuaded them to release her. I would like to reward you.'  
'Oh, my lady,' I said, blushing. 'That is not necessary. I ought to have tried to save her sooner. I thought I saw one of the fiends try to bite her. But she has no wound, of course...'  
'These four have done terrible things.' Her smile was sad then. 'My heart breaks that my servant was put in so much danger. Thanks be to God that she had you to bargain for her release.'  
'My lady, I did nothing-' I was interrupted, though she didn't speak. She stopped me with her eyes, then stepped closer to me. The world seemed to contain only her. She stepped closer still and I thought I should step back but I could not. Then she was pressed against me and I knew that it was wrong but I wanted her to never step back from me. She smelled of dying flowers. I felt her cold breath against my neck as she spoke.  
'You should be properly rewarded.'  
And then there was terrible, stabbing pain. And then there was nothing but bliss."

I promised that I would tell you a story of how the mask was almost lifted, and indeed I have. It took me close to a century to gather enough secrets to understand the events of that night. I found the last clue when I finally escaped the clutches of my creator, the infamous Dark Lady, the same veiled woman you have seen revealed to you. Though even now I cannot record everything in writing – some things are too dangerous to write and to read – it is enough to say that even then she was a person of immense personal and political power. It is proof enough of her power and influence that her name appears nowhere in any written history; there is not a reference or a hint of her presence, though she has devastated nations and killed kings in her time. But where there is a person with power there are a hundred itching to take it from her. In this case, four ambitious men decided to try to use an object, an ancient, evil, and ghastly object, to weaken and control her. She tricked and defeated them as she has tricked and defeated many, many others who have had the temerity to challenge her.  
Though there was a great mystery in the events surrounding my creation, there was an even greater mystery in the Dark Lady's decision to do what she did to me. Solving that mystery required seeing into the Dark Lady's head, and that place has always been obfuscated to even the shrewdest observers. I still do not know with certainty, but I believe that my devotion to my Christian duty impressed her. She believed she could convert that loyalty, if not to her, then to what she stood for: the Masquerade. And if that is what she was trying to do she has to an extent succeeded. For nothing has so consumed my life, such as it is, as has the defence of that institution. If I have learnt one thing from close to six hundred years of life, it is that the Dark Lady is right more often that she is wrong.  
As for the story of what happened after I received my rare gift from the Dark Lady, that is for another time. For now, I have the party of a lifetime to prepare for.


End file.
